Mischief, thou art afoot.--_Julius Cæsar._
Felix could not go home again immediately after quitting Esther. He got
out of the town, skirted it a little while, looking across the December
stillness of the fields, and then re-entered it by the main road into
the market-place, thinking that, after all, it would be better for him
to look at the busy doings of men than to listen in solitude to the
voices within him; and he wished to know how things were going on.
It was now nearly half-past one, and Felix perceived that the street was
filling with more than the previous crowd. By the time he got in front
of the booths, he was himself so surrounded by men who were being thrust
hither and thither that retreat would have been impossible; and he went
where he was obliged to go, although his height and strength were above
the average even in a crowd where there were so many heavy-armed workmen
used to the pickaxe. Almost all shabby-coated Trebians must have been
there, but the entries and back streets of the town did not supply the
mass of the crowd; and besides the rural incomers, both of the more
decent and the rougher sort, Felix, as he was pushed along, thought he
discerned here and there men of that keener aspect which is only common
in manufacturing towns.
But at present there was no evidence of any distinctly mischievous
design. There was only evidence that the majority of the crowd were
excited with drink, and that their action could hardly be calculated on
more than those of the oxen and pigs congregated amidst hootings and
pushings. The confused deafening shouts, the incidental fighting, the
knocking over, pulling and scuffling, seemed to increase every moment.
Such of the constables as were mixed with the crowd were quite helpless;
and if an official staff was seen above the heads, it moved about
fitfully, showing as little sign of a guiding hand as the summit of a
buoy on the waves. Doubtless many hurts and bruises had been received,
but no one could know the amount of injuries that were widely scattered.
It was clear that no more voting could be done, and the poll had been
adjourned. The probabilities of serious mischief had grown strong enough
to prevail over the rector's objection to getting military aid within
reach; and when Felix re-entered the town, a galloping messenger had
already been dispatched to Duffield. The rector wished to ride out
again, and read the Riot Act from a point where he could be better heard
than from the window of the Marquis; but Mr. Crow, the high
constable, who had returned from closer observation, insisted that the
risk would be too great. New special constables had been sworn in, but
Mr. Crow said prophetically that if once mischief began, the mob was
past caring for constables.
But the rector's voice was ringing and penetrating, and when he appeared
on the narrow balcony and read the formula, commanding all men to go to
their homes or about their lawful business, there was a strong transient
effect. Every one within hearing listened, and for a few moments after
the final words, "God save the King!" the comparative silence continued.
Then the people began to move, the buzz rose again, and grew, and grew,
till it turned to shouts and roaring as before. The movement was that of
a flood hemmed in; it carried nobody away. Whether the crowd would obey
the order to disperse themselves within an hour, was a doubt that
approached nearer to a negative certainty.
Presently Mr. Crow, who called himself a tactician, took a
well-intentioned step, which went far to fulfill his own prophecy. He
had arrived with the magistrates by a back way at the Seven Stars, and
here again the Riot Act was read from a window, with much the same
result as before. The rector had returned by the same way to the
Marquis, as the headquarters most suited for administration, but Mr.
Crow remained at the other extremity of King Street, where some
awe-striking presence was certainly needed. Seeing that the time was
passing, and all effect from the voice of law had disappeared, he showed
himself at an upper window, and addressed the crowd, telling them that
the soldiers had been sent for, and that if they did not disperse they
would have cavalry upon them instead of constables.
Mr. Crow, like some other high constables more celebrated in history,
"enjoyed a bad reputation"; that is to say, he enjoyed many things which
caused his reputation to be bad, and he was anything but popular in
Treby. It is probable that a pleasant message would have lost something
from his lips, and what he actually said was so unpleasant that, instead
of persuading the crowd, it appeared to enrage them. Some one, snatching
a raw potato from a sack in the green-grocer's shop behind him, threw it
at the constable, and hit him on the mouth. Straightway raw potatoes and
turnips were flying by twenties at the windows of the Seven Stars, and
the panes were smashed. Felix, who was half-way up the street, heard the
voices turning to a savage roar, and saw a rush toward the hardware
shop, which furnished more effective weapons and missiles than turnips
and potatoes. Then a cry ran along that the Tories had sent for the
soldiers, and if those among the mob who called themselves Tories as
willingly as anything else were disposed to take whatever called itself
the Tory side, they only helped the main result of reckless disorder.
But there were proofs that the predominant will of the crowd was against
"Debarry's men," and in favor of Transome. Several shops were invaded,
and they were all of them "Tory shops." The tradesmen who could do so
now locked their doors and barricaded their windows within. There was a
panic among the householders of this hitherto peaceful town, and a
general anxiety for the military to arrive. The rector was in painful
anxiety on this head; he had sent out two messengers as secretly as he
could toward Hathercote, to order the soldiers to ride straight to the
town; but he feared that these messengers had been somehow intercepted.
It was three o'clock; more than an hour had elapsed since the reading of
the Riot Act. The rector of Treby Magna wrote an indignant message and
sent it to the Ram, to Mr. Lingon, the rector of Little Treby, saying
that there was evidently a Radical animus in the mob, and that Mr.
Transome's party should hold themselves peculiarly responsible. Where
was Mr. Jermyn?
Mr. Lingon replied that he was going himself out toward Duffield to see
after the soldiers. As for Jermyn, he was not that attorney's sponsor;
he believed that Jermyn was gone away somewhere on business--to fetch
voters.
A serious effort was now being made by all the civil force at command.
The December day would soon be passing into evening, and all disorder
would be aggravated by obscurity. The horrors of fire were as likely to
happen as any minor evil. The constables, as many of them as could do
so, armed themselves with carbines and sabres; all the respectable
inhabitants who had any courage, prepared themselves to struggle for
order; and many felt with Mr. Wace and Mr. Tiliot that the nearest duty
was to defend the breweries and the spirit and wine vaults, where the
property was of a sort at once most likely to be threatened and most
dangerous in its effects. The rector, with fine determination, got on
horseback again, as the best mode of leading the constables, who could
only act efficiently in a close body. By his direction the column of
armed men avoided the main street, and made their way along a back road,
that they might occupy the two chief lanes leading into the wine-vaults
of the brewery, and bear down on the crowd from these openings, which it
was especially desirable to guard.
Meanwhile Felix Holt had been hotly occupied in King Street. After the
first window-smashing at the Seven Stars, there was a sufficient reason
for damaging that inn to the utmost. The destructive spirit tends toward
completeness; and any object once maimed or otherwise injured, is as
readily doomed by unreasoning men as by unreasoning boys. Also the Seven
Stars sheltered Spratt; and to some Sproxton men in front of that inn it
was exasperating that Spratt should be safe and sound on a day when
blows were going, and justice might be rendered. And again, there was
the general desirableness of being inside a public house.
Felix had at last been willingly urged on to this spot. Hitherto swayed
by the crowd, he had been able to do nothing but defend himself and keep
on his legs; but he foresaw that the people would burst into the inn; he
heard cries of "Spratt!" "Fetch him out!" "We'll pitch him out!" "Pummel
him!" It was not unlikely that lives might be sacrificed; and it was
intolerable to Felix to be witnessing the blind outrages of this mad
crowd, and yet be doing nothing to counteract them. Even some vain
effort would satisfy him better than mere gazing. Within the walls of
the inn he might save some one. He went in with a miscellaneous set, who
dispersed themselves with different objects--some to the tap-room, and
to search for the cellar: some up-stairs to search in all the rooms for
Spratt, or any one else, perhaps, as a temporary scapegoat for Spratt.
Guided by the screams of women, Felix at last got to a high up-stairs
passage, where the landlady and some of her servants were running away
in helpless terror from two or three half-tipsy men, who had been
emptying a spirit decanter in the bar. Assuming the tone of a mob-leader
he cried out, "Here, boys, here's better fun this way--come with me!"
and drew the men back with him along the passage. They reached the lower
staircase in time to see the unhappy Spratt being dragged, coatless and
screaming, down the steps. No one at present was striking or kicking
him; it seemed as if he were being reserved for punishment on some wider
area, where the satisfaction might be more generally shared. Felix
followed close, determined, if he could, to rescue both assailers and
assaulted from the worst consequences. His mind was busy with possible
devices.
Down the stairs, out along the stones through the gateway, Spratt was
dragged as a mere heap of linen and cloth rags. When he was got outside
the gateway, there was an immense hooting and roaring, though many there
had no grudge against him, and only guessed that others had the grudge.
But this was the narrower part of the street; it widened as it went
onward, and Spratt was dragged on, his enemies crying, "We'll make a
ring--we'll see how frightened he looks!"
"Kick him, and have done with him," Felix heard another say. "Let's go
to Tiliot's vaults--there's more gin there!"
Here were two hideous threats. In dragging Spratt onward the people were
getting very near to the lane leading up to Tiliot's. Felix kept as
close as he could to the threatened victim. He had thrown away his own
stick, and carried a bludgeon which had escaped from the hands of an
invader at the Seven Stars; his head was bare; he looked, to
undiscerning eyes, like a leading spirit of the mob. In this condition
he was observed by several persons looking anxiously from their upper
windows, and finally observed to push himself, by violent efforts, close
behind the dragged man.
Meanwhile, the foremost among the constables, who, coming by the back
way, had now reached the opening of Tiliot's lane, discerned that the
crowd had a victim amongst them. One spirited fellow, named Tucker, who
was a regular constable, feeling that no time was to be lost in
meditation, called on his neighbor to follow him, and with a sabre that
happened to be his weapon, got away for himself where he was not
expected, by dint of quick resolution. At this moment Spratt had been
let go--had been dropped, in fact, almost lifeless with terror, on the
street stones, and the men round him had retreated for a little space,
as if to amuse themselves with looking at him. Felix had taken his
opportunity; and seeing the first step toward a plan he was bent on, he
sprang forward close to the cowering Spratt. As he did this, Tucker had
cut his way to the spot, and imagining Felix to be the destined
executioner of Spratt--for any discrimination of Tucker's lay in his
muscles rather than his eyes--he rushed up to Felix, meaning to collar
him and throw him down. But Felix had rapid senses and quick thoughts;
he discerned the situation; he chose between two evils. Quick as
lightning he frustrated the constable, fell upon him, and tried to
master his weapon. In the struggle, which was watched without
interference, the constable fell undermost, and Felix got his weapon. He
started up with the bare sabre in his hand. The crowd round him cried
"Hurray!" with a sense that he was on their side against the constable.
Tucker did not rise immediately; but Felix did not imagine that he was
much hurt.
"Don't touch him!" said Felix. "Let him go. Here, bring Spratt, and
follow me."
Felix was perfectly conscious that he was in the midst of a tangled
business. But he had chiefly before his imagination the horrors that
might come if the mass of wild chaotic desires and impulses around him
were not diverted from any further attacks on places where they would
get in the midst of intoxicating and inflammable materials. It was not a
moment in which a spirit like his could calculate the effect of
misunderstanding as to himself: nature never makes men who are at once
energetically sympathetic and minutely calculating. He believed he had
the power and was resolved to try, to carry the dangerous mass out of
mischief till the military came to awe them--which he supposed, from Mr.
Crow's announcement a long time ago, must be a near event.
He was followed the more willingly, because Tiliot's lane was seen by
the hindmost to be now defended by constables, some of whom had
firearms; and where there is no strong counter-movement, any proposition
to do something that is unspecified stimulates stupid curiosity. To many
of the Sproxton men who were within sight of him, Felix was known
personally, and vaguely believed to be a man who meant many queer
things, not at all of an everyday kind. Pressing along like a leader,
with the sabre in his hand, and inviting them to bring on Spratt, there
seemed a better reason for following him than for doing anything else. A
man with a definite will and an energetic personality acts as a sort of
flag to draw and bind together the foolish units of a mob. It was on
this sort of influence over men whose mental state was a mere medley of
appetites and confused impressions, that Felix had dared to count. He
hurried them along with words of invitation, telling them to hold up
Spratt and not drag him; and those behind followed him, with a growing
belief that he had some design worth knowing, while those in front were
urged along partly by the same notion, partly by the sense that there
was a motive in those behind them, not knowing what the motive was. It
was that mixture of pushing forward and being pushed forward, which is a
brief history of most human things.
What Felix really intended to do, was to get the crowd by the nearest
way out of the town, and induce them to skirt it on the north side with
him, keeping up in them the idea that he was leading them to execute
some stratagem, by which they would surprise something worth attacking,
and circumvent the constables who were defending the lanes. In the
meantime he trusted that the soldiers would have arrived, and with this
sort of mob which was animated by no real political passion or fury
against social distinctions, it was in the highest degree unlikely that
there would be any resistance to a military force. The presence of fifty
soldiers would probably be enough to scatter the rioting hundreds. How
numerous the mob was, no one ever knew: many inhabitants afterward were
ready to swear that there must have been at least two thousand rioters.
Felix knew he was incurring great risks; but "his blood was up"; we
hardly allow enough in common life for the results of that enkindled
passionate enthusiasm which, under other conditions, makes world-famous
deeds.
He was making for a point where the street branched off on one side
toward a speedy opening between hedgerows, on the other toward the
shabby wideness of Pollard's End. At this forking of the street there
was a large space, in the centre of which there was a small stone
platform, mounting by three steps, with an old green finger-post upon
it. Felix went straight to this platform and stepped upon it, crying
"Halt!" in a loud voice to the men behind and before him, and calling to
those who held Spratt to bring him there. All came to a stand with faces
toward the finger-post, and perhaps for the first time the extremities
of the crowd got a definite idea that a man with a sabre in his hand was
taking the command.
"Now!" said Felix, when Spratt had been brought to the stone platform,
faint and trembling, "has anybody got cord? if not, handkerchiefs
knotted fast; give them to me."
He drew out his own handkerchief, and two or three others were mustered
and handed to him. He ordered them to be knotted together, while curious
eyes were fixed on him. Was he going to have Spratt hanged? Felix kept
fast hold of his weapon, and ordered others to act.
"Now, put it round his waist, wind his arms in, draw them a little
backward--so! and tie it fast on the other side of the post."
When that was done, Felix said, imperatively:
"Leave him there--we shall come back to him; let us make haste; march
along, lads! Up Park Street and down Hobb's Lane."
It was the best chance he could think of for saving Spratt's life. And
he succeeded. The pleasure of seeing the helpless man tied up sufficed
for the moment, if there were any who had ferocity enough to count much
on coming back to him. Nobody's imagination represented the certainty
that some one out of the houses at hand would soon come and untie him
when he was left alone.
And the rioters pushed up Park Street, a noisy stream, with Felix still
in the midst of them, though he was laboring hard to get his way to the
front. He wished to determine the course of the crowd along a by-road
called Hobb's Lane, which would have taken them to the other--the
Duffield end of the town. He urged several of the men round him, one of
whom was no less a person than the big Dredge, our old Sproxton
acquaintance, to get forward, and be sure that all the fellows would go
down the lane, else they would spoil sport. Hitherto Felix had been
successful, and he had gone along with an unbroken impulse. But soon
something occurred which brought with a terrible shock the sense that
his plan might turn out to be as mad as all bold projects are seen to be
when they have failed.
Mingled with the more headlong and half-drunken crowd there were some
sharp-visaged men who loved the irrationality of riots for something
else than its own sake, and who at present were not so much the richer
as they desired to be, for the pains they had taken in coming to the
Treby election, induced by certain prognostics gathered at Duffield on
the nomination-day that there might be the conditions favorable to that
confusion which was always a harvest-time. It was known to some of these
sharp men that Park Street led out toward the grand house of Treby
Manor, which was as good--nay, better, for their purpose than the bank.
While Felix was entertaining his ardent purpose, these other sons of
Adam were entertaining another ardent purpose of their peculiar sort,
and the moment had come when they were to have their triumph.
From the front ranks backward toward Felix there ran a new summons--a
new invitation.
"Let us go to Treby Manor!"
From that moment Felix was powerless; a new definite suggestion overrode
his vaguer influence. There was a determined rush past Hobb's Lane, and
not down it. Felix was carried along too. He did not know whether to
wish the contrary. Once on the road, out of town, with openings into
fields and with the wide park at hand, it would have been easy to
liberate himself from the crowd. At first it seemed to him the better
part to do this, and to get back to the town as fast as he could, in the
hope of finding the military and getting a detachment to come and save
the Manor. But he reflected that the course of the mob had been
sufficiently seen, and that there were plenty of people in Park Street
to carry the information faster than he could. It seemed more necessary
that he should secure the presence of some help for the family at the
Manor by going there himself. The Debarrys were not of the class of
people he was wont to be anxious about; but Felix Holt's conscience was
alive to the accusation that any danger they might be in now was brought
on by a deed of his. In these moments of bitter vexation and
disappointment, it did occur to him that very unpleasant consequences
might be hanging over him of a kind quite different from inward
dissatisfaction; but it was useless now to think of averting such
consequences. As he was pressed along with the multitude into Treby
Park, his very movement seemed to him only an image of the day's
fatalities, in which the multitudinous small wickednesses of small
selfish ends, really undirected toward any larger result, had issued in
widely-shared mischief that might yet be hideous.
[Illustration: FELIX WOUNDED IN THE RIOT.]
The light was declining: already the candles shone through many windows
of the Manor. Already the foremost part of the crowd had burst into the
offices, and adroit men were busy in the right places to find plate,
after setting others to force the butler into unlocking the cellars; and
Felix had only just been able to force his way on to the front terrace,
with the hope of getting to the rooms where he would find the ladies of
the household and comfort them with the assurance that rescue must
soon come, when the sound of horses' feet convinced him that the rescue
was nearer than he had expected. Just as he heard the horses, he had
approached the large window of a room where a brilliant light suspended
from the ceiling showed him a group of women clinging together in
terror. Others of the crowd were pushing their way up the terrace-steps
and gravel-slopes at various points. Hearing the horses, he kept his
post in front of the window, and, motioning with his sabre, cried out to
the oncomers, "Keep back! I hear the soldiers coming." Some scrambled
back, some paused automatically.
The louder and louder sound of the hoofs changed its pace and
distribution. "Halt! Fire!" Bang! bang! bang!--came deafening the ears
of the men on the terrace.
Before they had time or nerve to move, there was a rushing sound closer
to them--again "Fire!" a bullet whizzed, and passed through Felix Holt's
shoulder--the shoulder of the arm that held the naked weapon which shone
in the light from the window.
Felix fell. The rioters ran confusedly, like terrified sheep. Some of
the soldiers, turning, drove them along with the flat of their swords.
The greater difficulty was to clear the invaded offices.
The rector, who with another magistrate and several other gentlemen on
horseback had accompanied the soldiers, now jumped on to the terrace,
and hurried to the ladies of the family.
Presently there was a group round Felix, who had fainted, and, reviving,
had fainted again. He had had little food during the day, and had been
overwrought. Two of the group were civilians, but only one of them knew
Felix, the other being a magistrate not resident in Treby. The one who
knew Felix was Mr. John Johnson, whose zeal for the public peace had
brought him from Duffield when he heard that the soldiers were summoned.
"I know this man very well," said Mr. Johnson. "He is a dangerous
character--quite revolutionary."
It was a weary night; and the next day, Felix, whose wound was declared
trivial, was lodged in Loamford Jail. There were three charges against
him: that he had assaulted a constable, that he had committed
manslaughter (Tucker was dead from spinal concussion), and that he had
led a riotous onslaught on a dwelling-house.
Four other men were committed: one of them for possessing himself of a
gold cup with the Debarry arms on it; the three others, one of whom was
the collier Dredge, for riot and assault.
That morning Treby town was no longer in terror; but it was in much
sadness. Other men, more innocent than the hated Spratt, were groaning
under severe bodily injuries. And poor Tucker's corpse was not the only
one that had been lifted from the pavement. It is true that none grieved
much for the other dead man, unless it be grief to say, "Poor old
fellow!" He had been trampled upon, doubtless, where he fell drunkenly,
near the entrance of the Seven Stars. This second corpse was old Tommy
Trounsem, the bill-sticker--otherwise Thomas Transome, the last of a
very old family-line.